“That’s not our fault,” Sachs said. “We kept your witness alive. And caught Hansen’s hired killer.”

“Ah,” Rhyme said, “but there’s more to it than that, right, Reggie?”

The assistant U.S. attorney gazed at him coldly.

Rhyme continued, “See, Jodie—I mean, the Dancer—is the only chance they have to make a case against Hansen now. Or that’s what he thinks. But Dancer’ll never dime a client.”

“Oh, that a fact? Well, you don’t know him as well as you think you do. I just had a long talk with him. He was more than willing to implicate Hansen. Except now he’s stonewalling. Thanks to you.”

“Me?” Rhyme asked.

“He said you threatened him. During that little unauthorized meeting you had a few hours ago. Uh-huh. Heads are going to roll because of that. Rest assured.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rhyme spat out, laughing bitterly. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? Let me guess . . . you told him that you’d arrest me, right? And he’d agree to testify if you did.”

The pendulum swing of Eliopolos’s eyes told Rhyme that this was exactly what happened.

“Don’t you get it?”

But Eliopolos didn’t get a thing.

Rhyme said, “Don’t you think he’d like to get me in detention, maybe fifty, sixty feet from where he is?”

“Rhyme,” Sachs said, frowning with concern.

“What’re you talking about?” the attorney said.

“He wants to kill me, Reggie. That’s his point. I’m the only man who’s ever stopped him. He can’t very well go back to work knowing I’m out there.”

“But he’s not going anywhere. Ever.”

Uh-huh.

Rhyme said, “After I’m dead he’ll recant. He’ll never testify against Hansen. And what’re you going to pressure him with? Threaten him with the needle? He won’t care. He’s not afraid of anything. Not a single thing.”

What was nagging? Rhyme wondered. Something seemed wrong here. Very wrong.

He decided it was the phone books . . .

Phone books and rocks.

Rhyme was lost in thought, staring at the evidence chart on the wall. He heard a jingle, glanced up. One of the agents with Eliopolos actually pulled out his handcuffs and was proceeding toward the Clinitron. Rhyme laughed to himself. Better shackle the old feet. Might run away.

“Come on, Reggie,” Sellitto said.

The green fiber, phone books, and rocks.

He remembered something the Dancer had told him. Sitting in the very chair Eliopolos stood beside now.

A million dollars . . .

Rhyme was vaguely aware of the agent trying to figure out how to best subdue a crip. And he was vaguely aware of Sachs stepping forward trying to figure out how to subdue the agent. Suddenly he barked, “Wait,” in a voice commanding enough to freeze everyone in the room.

The green fiber . . .

He stared at it on the chart.

People were talking to him. The agent was still eyeing Rhyme’s hands, brandishing the tinkling cuffs. But Rhyme ignored them all. He said to Eliopolos, “Give me a half hour.”